


Ten Years

by hpdm4ever, MessiFangirl (hpdm4ever)



Series: Ramessi 2019 [6]
Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Confrontations, Exes, FC Barcelona, Fights, Friendship, Idiots in Love, Juventus Turin, Love, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Post-Break Up, Ramessi, Real Madrid CF, Sexual Tension, teammates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-09 11:20:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18637099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hpdm4ever/pseuds/hpdm4ever, https://archiveofourown.org/users/hpdm4ever/pseuds/MessiFangirl
Summary: The anger subsides at Messi's honesty, even though he still has a strong desire to throw Messi down in front of Cris and kiss the ever living daylights out of him just to make sure Cris knows he doesn't have a chance. Kiss him, blow him, fuck him. Whatever it takes. There's just that primal instinct inside of him that wants to mark his territory, but short of peeing all over the floor--which he's sure Messi will not appreciate and to be honest is quite a disgusting, ridiculous idea--Sergio's not sure what would be best to do.





	Ten Years

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yulin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yulin/gifts), [LeoDios](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeoDios/gifts), [prompt_fills](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prompt_fills/gifts).



> More for this series la la la

Sergio has a moment of genuine, honest regret that throbs through every bit of his body as he leans over Messi and knows he can't finish what he started. He shouldn't *want* Messi so badly, yet he does, and it's near torture to pull back and force himself to put space between them.

For fuck's sake, he's a grown man, he should be able to control himself.

He's not been a horny teenager for quite some time. But Messi had called him insatiable, and he was exactly right, because even now as he stares at Messi's flushed face and parted lips it takes every ounce of his strength not to go back to what he was doing.

It would be easy to forget the door. Easy to just press Messi down and tear off all his clothes.

Messi wants him.

Messi would let him.

Oh yes, it would be easy.

"I'm," Sergio says, taking a deep breath and slowly letting it out through his nostrils, "gonna do what you want to do, here." The smell of Messi's soap fills his nose, along with the forgotten garlic and onions that have remained where Messi left them. His stomach gurgles as if to remind him they never ate, but there's no time for that now.

Sergio runs a hand through his hair as he watches Messi sit up on the edge of the table. He looks half out of it, pink cheeks and hair mussed in the most lovely and disheveled way. His thighs are spread and Sergio wants to step between them again, but he's being good. He can wait. He can do what he needs to. "It's your house, your ex, your lead, okay?"

Admittedly, Cris is *his* friend, and *his* former teammate, and they'd been that way for longer than Messi and Cris were dating, but still. Cris has clearly come to see Messi, not Sergio, and so Sergio should try to stay out of this as much as possible. If he can.

(He probably can't.)

Messi slides off the table, pulling the hem of his shirt down from where Sergio had pushed it up in his haste. "Alright. But if you think I have any idea how to handle this..." he mumbles, trailing off and shrugging. He rubs his hands over his face quickly and then tugs his ear. "I mean, I'll get the door and... mention you're here? And uh, go from there?" His gaze flicks over Sergio. First at his face and then down. Lower. "Um, do you want to go get a shirt?"

Sergio looks down at himself.

Granted, his erection is obvious through his thin shorts. That's not Sergio's fault, especially not when he's been pressed up against Messi. That said, there are a few bite marks around his abdomen that probably should be hidden. Messi's obsession with Sergio's stomach had never seemed to be a problem until this very moment, but now Sergio's thinking that it might not be the best thing to flaunt. "Yeah, alright," he agrees, fingers lightly tracing where Messi's lips and teeth and tongue had been that morning.

Messi's eyes follow his hand, and the flush deepens.

Sergio grins, feeling appreciated. Then he coughs and tries to look serious. And be serious, too. "So, a shirt, and um, I'll go take my time doing that. You get the door and I guess go sit and chat, and I'll come down if you think I should." He's pretty sure Messi's right. That there's no right way to handle this. And since he's known Cris for as long as he has, he's pretty sure it's not going to go great in any case.

He's never known Cris to roll over and give up on anything in his entire life. And yes, while Cris definitely left Messi to fuck off to Italy, Sergio also thinks Cris expected Messi to just sit here all sad and lonely and wait until he was wanted again.

Ha.

Cris' loss is Sergio's gain.

Messi nods, not looking entirely at ease, but Sergio doesn't blame him. He knows it'll be hard for Messi to face Cris. There's a spark of something in his eyes, though, that's new and different. Maybe because he's confessed everything to Sergio, maybe it's given him some strength to face Cris head on. A sort of confidence, albeit not calmness.

The doorbell rings again at that moment, twice in quick succession, and Messi winces. "I'll just--," he says, pointing the door and then forcing himself to leave the kitchen.

Sergio sighs, shaking his head, and goes back upstairs to get a shirt. "Well, this'll be fun."

He can barely hear Cris come in, though he knows what the front door sounds like when it closes. There's the murmur of voices down below in the hallway, and Sergio dillydallies in Messi's bedroom to try to give them a few minutes. Or, that's what he means to do, except he finds that he's twitchy and impatient and gradually moving back toward the stairs before much time has passed. And then he's going down the stairs, slowly, taking them one by one as if that's going to make it better. Now he can hear they're talking about Portugal and Cris' leg and the treatment Cris is going to get in Barcelona after this.

It's all very calm, very normal conversation. Nothing too personal or extreme, something casual that might be discussed amongst colleagues. The calm before the storm, one might say, or at least Sergio does in his head to himself. That is, before he tells himself to stop talking to himself like a crazy person.

"Is he going to come down?" Cris asks then, and Sergio realizes that Messi must have mentioned he was here almost immediately.

"I'm sure he will soon," Messi answers softly, not giving much away. There's a touch of fondness in his voice, or it seems that way to Sergio, but maybe he's reading too much into it. "We were," Messi starts, and then stops. "I mean, he was--," he stops again, as if he's not sure what to say.

Well, he could say they were about to fuck on the kitchen table, but maybe that's a bit much. Clearly, he doesn't want to lie to Cris, though, so that's an issue and he's not sure how to proceed.

It's not that Sergio needs to rescue him, so much that Sergio feels like it's a good enough time to take the last few steps to the doorway. "Hey, Cris," Sergio says dramatically from the doorway, a smile stretching across his face as he sees his friend. He doesn't have to fake his happiness to see Cris, no matter how uncomfortable the situation is or how long it's been since they've really talked. "How's the leg?"

Cris is seated on the long couch, just off center, like he'd sat down first and expected Messi to join him. But Messi's chosen the armchair off to the side, and so Sergio feels like he'll have no choice but to take the couch as well. He supposes he could sit on the arm of Messi's chair, but the chair isn't that big and it would look a little ridiculous. Messi doesn't weigh very much, either, so the possibility of flipping the chair over is also a danger.

It's probably unnecessary, Sergio sitting there anyway.

It's not like he needs to stake a claim or anything.

There's nothing to worry about here.

While all of this is whirling around in Sergio's head, Cris rises to greet him. They shake hands graciously and give each other a hug like everything's normal. His friend looks good, as always, perfectly groomed and in excellent shape. He's wearing dark jeans and a fitted white, button-down shirt. Diamonds are sparkling in his ears and there's a long, tan colored coat thrown over the cushion beside him.

Italy obviously agrees with him.

That jerk.

"Not too bad," Cris answers amiably, patting him on the back. "I was just saying that they'll take a look here before I go back to Turin. Give me some better answers about timetables and such. You know how it is." His voice is calm and level, as confident as ever, brilliant white teeth looking even brighter against his deep tan. "Better safe than sorry, of course. Don't want to rush it."

"Sure, sure," Sergio says, which sounds idiotic, but he's wondering why they're all walking on eggshells here. He looks across to Messi and is pleased to see that he doesn't look too bad. Not upset at least. There's a bit of a crease between his eyebrows, but it's not the worst Sergio's ever seen. Though, admittedly, Messi is biting his lip which is never a great sign. "I guess, Leo told you that we're seeing each other?" Sergio blurts out, swinging his gaze back to Cris.

Cris' face doesn't change, the confident smile staying put. "Yes," he answers shortly. "I did hear something about that when I came in." He purses his lips as he considers Sergio. "A little unexpected, I have to say, when Leo told me the news. Didn't think that you really would ever cross a line like that," he adds pointedly as he sits down again.

Sergio feels his heart stop and then start again. Are they doing this? "A line?" he asks, sitting, wondering if his own smile looks natural enough or if it's starting to appear fake. Of course, if they're about to have a fight about Sergio banging his ex, it doesn't really matter any longer.

Maybe he'd feel better if Cris punched him.

"Team line, of course," Cris clarifies, sitting back against the cushions of the couch. He looks entirely too comfortable now like he's making himself at home. Probably about to kick his feet up on the coffee table, just as he's done a thousand times in the past. "Can't imagine you did well this year once you two started playing against each other. Not with your temper. Was always a tough time for us, if I recall," he says, glancing across at Messi. "You remember how it was, Leo? We had more than our share of rough nights."

'And make up mornings,' goes unsaid.

Sergio grits his teeth.

Messi politely smiles, though Sergio knows him well enough by now to tell that *that* smile is definitely not genuine. Cris probably can tell too. "Sergio and I got through it alright," Messi says, not seeming in the mood to reminisce--it that's what Cris was aiming for. "We're both professionals. Able to leave things on the pitch when we have to."

Sergio holds in a laugh at that, knowing that's far from the truth, but entirely willing to support Messi in this lie for the sake of the conversation. "Besides," he says, drawing Cris' attention again, "team lines kinda cease to be important when you only play each other twice a year or so. Why should we let that color our friendships with people? I mean, I'm on great terms with the guys on the national team, despite their club teams. Alba, Roberto, Busi... Geri most of the time." That's a little closer to the truth, so he's able to keep rolling with it. "I've always thought that's the way it should be, anyway."

Cris is staring at him, arm stretched out along the couch. He might know Sergio's not telling the whole truth, but he doesn't seem bothered. He's elegantly tapping his fingers, the light reflecting off his enormous black and white watch. "You surprise me, Sese. Here I thought you hated Leo. Even more than Geri." His tone is cooler than it was before. "You've certainly said more than enough shit about him and Barça over the years. And the way you go after him on the field--."

Messi shifts slightly, not liking that in the least. "Oh, come off it, Cris," he interrupts, frowning. "We've all said things about each other, especially in the weeks before or after el clásico. The heat of the moment, or the building rivalry in the league has definitely overtaken us. Whatever Sergio said doesn't really matter in the bigger scheme of things." He flicks his eyes between Cris and Sergio, his cheeks still pink but his voice level. "You were guilty of that, as well, if I recall," he adds, focusing on Cris in the end.

Sergio's lips curl up, feeling somewhat proud of Messi's staunch defense.

Messi loves him, after all.

"I might have said some things, but not sure I've ever made you bleed out there, Leo," Cris replies, raising his eyebrows. "Not like Sergio has. Don't think I didn't watch just because I wasn't playing any longer. I think everyone in the world saw the way he smacked you in the face."

"Hey now," Sergio says, anger swirling to the surface. He grinds his teeth. "That was an accident. And I apologized repeatedly to Leo, if you really must know. That very night even." He doesn't feel the need to mention the intense fight they had beforehand or the fact that it took Suárez's intervention for the reconciliation to even happen. That's not Cris' business, so who the fuck cares. What matters is there were apologies all around and he and Leo became stronger for it.

"If you say so," Cris agrees, though it's obvious he's not convinced. "I suppose you'll just have to wait and see." And when Sergio looks at him in confusion, "How it goes next year. If you're still together, of course," he says airily.

The insinuation doesn't do anything to help the building anger in Sergio's stomach.

Or his molars.

"I know you guys are still new to this," Cris throws out. "Well, Leo's not new to the whole dating a Blanco thing, obviously," he adds, turning back to Leo.

And he's so smiley and charming and Sergio knows exactly what he's doing and wants to strangle him.

Maybe he'd feel better if he punched Cris.

It makes sense. For Cris to be playing all the cards he has. There aren't that many, especially since Cris is the one who broke things off, but he has some. He's already mentioned el clásico and the rivalry and Sergio's roughness--those are the obvious ones. And now he's going to compare how long his relationship was with Messi to how long Sergio's relationship with Messi has been.

Sergio's at a disadvantage there--he knows Cris and Messi have a history.

Messi shifts in the armchair again, almost birdlike as he flutters around. But even he must see where Cris is going with things, because again, he doesn't rise to Cris' bait. "I think Sergio and I are going to last for a very long time," Messi says quietly and sincerely, blinking at Cris in seriousness. "We may be a new couple, but that doesn't make the feelings any less strong."

'Not just feelings, but love,' Sergio wants to say, but he says it inside instead.

The anger subsides at Messi's honesty, even though he still has a strong desire to throw Messi down in front of Cris and kiss the ever living daylights out of him just to make sure Cris knows he doesn't have a chance. Kiss him, blow him, fuck him. Whatever it takes. There's just that primal instinct inside of him that wants to mark his territory, but short of peeing all over the floor--which he's sure Messi will not appreciate and to be honest is quite a disgusting, ridiculous idea--Sergio's not sure what would be best to do.

Even as Messi's speaking, Sergio can see Cris calculating, figuring out his next move. It's almost admirable, or it would be if Sergio wasn't quite as invested in this situation as he is. He'd rather be supporting his friend in such a quest to regain his love, instead of trying to thwart him.

But obviously, that's impossible here with what's at stake.

"Of course," Cris says, still smiling like he doesn't have a care in the world. He looks around Messi's living room, patting the couch as if it's an old friend. "You've redecorated some, Leo, I see. New paint? And different curtains. Looks nice, though I'm glad you kept most of the furniture the same. I've always liked how you adopted the Spanish style. I've missed Spain," he says, not missing a beat. "Both Barcelona and Madrid," he continues, nodding to Sergio like he's making normal conversation. "Italy is..." Here he pauses, as if he's trying to find the words. "Well, it's indescribable, really," he finishes. "The people, the food, the culture. All very beautiful. I fit right in!"

"And the football? Juventus is doing rather well," Messi contributes, looking a little more at ease now that the subject seems to have changed. Not as unsettled. "You have a decent lead in the league, I think? Napoli and Inter way back?"

Sergio wants to warn him of his suspicions, especially when Messi relaxes into the chair and goes back to his normal posture, but there's probably no possible way to do that without causing a fight. "Yeah," Sergio says instead, "looks like you're on your way to your first Italian title." The anger actually threatens to spill out as he says that, the niggling reminder of Real Madrid's season always in the back of his mind.

"We'll get it," Cris confirms, grin stretching. Whether or not he's reading Sergio's mind is anyone's guess. "First of many trophies for me in Italy, mark my words. You know, though, and I'll deny it if anyone ever publicly asks, but, the league is really not as challenging as Spain's." He laughs again, shakes his head somewhat ruefully. "I do occasionally miss the challenge. Not many are on my level."

Sergio opens his mouth to say something he's not sure is very polite, but Cris isn't finished.

"I suppose Paulo is alright," Cris continues. "He's young, though. Small, not very physical. Good feet, strong shot. Can read the field well. Still has a lot to learn about the game." He shrugs and looks at Messi. "They try to say he is as good as you. Or could be as good as you." He shakes his head. "They're very wrong, Leo," he says bluntly.

Messi hums, pulling a leg up to his chest and resting his chin on his knee. "He's very good. It's not his fault about those comparisons. The younger players always get them now," he says, though he bites his lip in thought. "I talk to him every so often. It's usually stilted, though I wish I could change that. He probably wishes I never existed. It would have been much better for his international career." Then he sighs. "Would have been compared even more to Maradona, then, so maybe not. Poor kid."

"Isn't he like, 27?" Sergio asks, watching Messi look up. "Not really a kid anymore, is he?" He doesn't have anything invested in this conversation, but he hates the idea that Messi possibly blames himself for Dybala's lack of success for Argentina. "Same age as Neymar, or James, or Isco. We see them as kids, but they're not really. I think at some point you have to let him take responsibility for his actions. Decisions, playing time, or lack thereof."

"He's 25," Cris answers, shaking his wrist to check the time. "Young compared to all of us." He tilts his head and then smiles again. "It's interesting to play with him, sometimes," he says, eyes going back to Messi's. "I mostly have Mandžukić up top with me. But with Paulo, small and quick with his dark hair and thin frame? It makes me wonder what it would have been like if you and I had ever played together. Me up front with you behind? I think we would have been quite successful. An excellent team. Just as we were off the pitch, too."

Messi doesn't quite smile, but he tilts his head. Sergio doesn't mind it, but he's cautiously aware that Cris might try to bond this way. Football is always a way to Messi's heart. That much, Sergio knows for sure.

"Anyone would be successful with Leo," Sergio says, exceedingly proud of himself for steering the conversation away from danger. Besides a little flattery never hurts, even if he knows Messi can see right through him. "You wanna come over to Madrid, Leo?" Sergio teases. "Would save me from having to fly all the way over here whenever I want to see you."

Messi does smile then. "I think I told you that white's not my color," he says, winking at Sergio.

It's on the tip of Sergio's tongue to say something incredibly dirty, but he remembers where he is and who he's with and doesn't say it. Instead, he grins saucily at Messi instead, hoping that's enough. And it is, if the pretty way Messi's cheeks pinken up again indicate anything.

"If I remember correctly," Cris says suddenly, "you look quite good in white."

There's no other way to describe it except that Messi becomes more embarrassed that Sergio's ever seen him. It actually worries Sergio so much that he nearly gets out of his seat to go over and make sure Messi's okay. But after a few seconds, and a few deep breaths, Messi returns to more of a normal color. And in the meantime, Sergio tries to process what Cris has just said.

It's sexual, obviously.

That's Sergio's main takeaway, as he eyes Cris who looks quite pleased with himself. And there are a ton of things going through his head that it could mean, but Sergio forces himself to lock down his imagination and find a way to change the subject. Messi's uncomfortable--it doesn't take much to see that. Sergio can learn what it all means later if he wants to. For now, he needs to move on.

"Leo looks good in every color," Sergio says clumsily. "Why, when we were in Malta, I found myself contemplating how he would look in that color red. It was really quite close to the Spain jersey red, but not exactly. A United red? Liverpool red? Roma red?" He taps his chin like he's thinking and then waves his hand in the shape of a jersey. "You know what I mean? Can you imagine it?" he rambles nonsensically. "It was definitely red, but I don't think I can describe it exactly. Where's my phone? I'll pull up a picture." He pats his nonexistent pockets and then makes a show of looking in the couch cushions. "The shades of red that exist are all so similar... Fifty Shades of Red, amirite? Where is that phone? I swear I just had it."

Cris is looking at him oddly. But beyond him, Messi's lips are starting to turn up. "I think you left it upstairs," Messi finally says, when Sergio's made himself fool enough by all his pretend looking. "Probably on the night table."

"Oh, well," Sergio says, slapping his leg like he cares. He could go up and get it and continue the farce of trying to find the exact color red he's talking about, but at this point, he's over it. Deciding he's had enough of the mind games, he kicks his feet up onto the coffee table himself. He's never actually noticed but the table is perfectly positioned for his long frame and he doesn't have to awkwardly stretch to reach it. His flip flops have probably seen better days, and so have his feet, but neither Cris nor Messi are going to bat an eye at them. "Anyways, it's really good to see you, Cris," he says, no longer in a mood to play around. "You staying long?"

From this angle, he can see up Cris' nose. It's not a good look for him. Never was.

There's a sharpness to Cris' smile as its turned on him. "You tired of me already, Sese?" Cris asks, as if the nickname is going to win him points. Or maybe it's meant to remind Sergio of their long friendship. Or maybe it doesn't mean anything and Sergio's just looking for trouble where there is none. "I've barely been here a few minutes! I was just wondering if I could trouble you for a cup of tea," he says, looking back toward Messi.

"Well, you know," Sergio demurs, drawing his attention again as he scratches the heel of one foot with the edge of his flip flop. "It's not that I'm *not* happy to see you. I mean, you're welcome to drop in on Madrid any time--and I'm sure the other guys would love to see you and chat. But here? It's just that Leo and I don't have that much time to spend together, and international break is nearly over." He raises his eyebrows and then waggles them. "And we're really like to get back to what it was we were doing before you rang the doorbell. If you know what I mean. And let's face it, you're a pretty smart guy so you probably do."

Yep, he went there.

"Sergio," Messi hisses warningly. He shakes his head at Sergio and mouths, 'No,' but Sergio's not sure he feels the need to obey. This will go on all night if he doesn't step it up and get Cris out of here.

Cris is still staring at him with that tight smile, not even looking at Messi to see his response to all of this. He also gives no sign that he's heard Messi's warning. "You surprise me, Sese," he finally says, leaning in a little closer to peer at Sergio's face. "You, of all people, going for him the second my back was turned. Says a lot about what our friendship was based on, doesn't it?"

The awful thing is they all know how to hurt each other.

It's just a matter of deciding whether they want to do that.

"Okay, we're not doing this," Messi says as he stands up then. Both Sergio and Cris turn to look at him, startled out of the stupor they're in. "I think we're finished here," Messi continues, and it has an air of finality. "I could let you sit here and fight, but I really don't want to do that. Not in my house, not on my couch. And it's not going to solve anything, anyway." That crease between his eyebrows has grown and it looks like he's nearly bitten through his bottom lip in his frustration.

Sergio's not exactly sure if he's in trouble, but then Messi looks at Cris. Sergio grins.

"It was good to see you, Cris. Thank you for stopping by while you were in Barcelona. I hope that the treatment for your leg goes well and that you're back training as soon as possible," Messi says, only a tiny waver in his voice showing his displeasure. "Good luck in the CL. But you'll forgive me if I say that I hope we don't meet on the field any time soon."

Cris looks stunned, but he slowly gets to his feet. "Of course, Leo," he says, and it's like the wind's been knocked out of him.

Sergio's honestly not sure if Cris really thought he was going to win Messi back with this visit, but it appears he thought he'd get a much warmer welcome than he's gotten. And he definitely didn't expect to get kicked out like this. Sergio tries to hide his smile out of politeness, but he's not sure he's quite successful.

His mirth does dim when Cris steps closer to Messi.

"It was good to see you again, Leo," Cris says quietly. He opens his mouth and then shuts it, as if he's actually trying to choose his words carefully in the little time he has left. "It's been too long since I've seen you. Too long since we've talked." He lifts his hand and after a short hesitation, lightly touches Messi's hair to smooth some of it away. "I've missed you."

Sergio's hands clench into fists and he nearly breaks his thumbs to avoid getting involved. As it is, he starts to cut off the circulation to all of his fingers and worries that he's going to do himself permanent harm. He doesn't really need his hands to play football, right? But he doesn't move, doesn't dare do anything. And in the end, that's the right decision.

Because Messi takes a step back from Cris.

There's a faint smile on his face, but that's all there is.

"It was nice to see you again too, Cris," Messi says softly, "but I don't think I've missed you the way you've missed me. Too much time has passed and things are different now for both of us. I've moved on. I've moved on and I'm happy." His eyes flick over to Sergio's reassuringly. "Happy with Sergio."

Cris clears his throat like he can't believe what he's hearing, and it's the most awkward and beautiful thing Sergio's ever seen.

Messi looks back at Cris. "I hope that one day you can find someone you're happy with too," he says simply. "But it won't be me." He peers earnestly up at Cris, and Sergio can see he means well even if he doesn't know how else to tell Cris it's over for good. "And, it's important to me that you understand that." His voice is firm now, stressing that he means this more than ever.

Cris clears his throat again. "Leo... you're sure? I know we ended things badly before, but..." He shakes his head like Messi's making a huge mistake. "We're good together--you know that. We wouldn't have gotten through so many things if we weren't. All those years? All that time spent together? Birthdays and anniversaries and holidays! You know just *how good* we are. And you want to give that up? For---" He waves a hand almost dismissively at Sergio.

At any other time, Sergio would be utterly offended, and maybe he will be later after everything has set in, but for now, all he can do is watch and listen. Because he knows for sure that Messi can handle this, and he thinks he's going to enjoy watching it happen. If someone had asked him before all of this if he wanted to see Cris crash and burn, the answer would have been no, but right now, the answer is most definitely yes.

"For Sergio," Messi finishes Cris' sentence and his smile grows larger. "Yes," he says calmly. "Believe it or not, I love him."

That shocks Cris again. "You love *him*?" Cris asks, completely astounded. He makes an awful face now, clearly believing that there's something wrong with Messi's head. "Him?" he asks again.

It's a train wreck.

And again, Sergio thinks he should be offended. At the very least he's pretty sure he's going to end up giving Cris an earful after all this blows over. Maybe a few months down the line when they can stand to be in the same room as each other again. Or maybe over the phone when they're separated by an ocean or two. Because seriously?

What?

Is he not worth loving?

Is he not worthy of Messi's love?

What is it exactly that makes it so hard for Cris to believe?

"None other," Messi confirms, and though he doesn't look as annoyed as Sergio feels, there's a spark of irritation on Sergio's behalf now. "Ask me today, tomorrow. Again in a week, a month, a year," he says firmly. "Ask me again in ten years. I love him. And I'm sorry if you expected something else, coming here like this out of the blue. But I'm telling you here and now that we finished things in July."

Cris shakes his head. "No," he says, "no, no, no. That was a mistake, and it shouldn't have ended like that. It can't end like that. I know you. More than him, more than anyone does or could be. I know you like nobody else does, and--"

"If you know me," Messi interrupts, dark eyes intense, "then you'll believe me when I say that we're over, Cris. Over for good."

Sergio nearly stunned himself from it all, but he feels something wash over him then. It takes him a moment to figure it all out as the three of them lapse into silence. Cris' gaze is locked onto Messi's, but his lips have turned down unhappily as if it's finally sunk in. He's taking deep breaths, but nothing is changing. And that's what Sergio felt explode into the room: Cris' acceptance.

Cris doesn't say goodbye to Sergio. And he barely says goodbye to Messi. "I know the way out," Cris breathes, eyes skittering all around like he's almost afraid to make contact with either of them after that. He's still a towering force of nature, coat nearly billowing as he turns to stride out of the room. And then the door slams behind him.

Messi lets out a huge sigh, sitting down in the armchair again as if that final confrontation had taken every last bit of his energy. He looks like a rag doll, legs splayed and arms resting on the armrests. And since Sergio's peering back at him, he asks wearily, "What?"

"Ten years? You romantic idiot," Sergio says, feeling barely able to move himself. He waggles his fingers in Messi's direction. "Love you."

Messi closes his eyes. "Shut up, I hate you," he says, smiling.

"No, you don't," Sergio says gleefully.

"No, I don't," Messi replies, shaking his head. "But shut up." And then after a few seconds. "And for real, go find your phone. And then order some pizza, will you?"

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed :)


End file.
